


Like Father, Like Daughter

by DarcyDelaney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Gen, Major character death (but the story takes place in the afterlife so he's kind of not dead? idk), Parental Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyDelaney/pseuds/DarcyDelaney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is killed and sent to Heaven, where he runs into one of the last people he'd expect: his daughter, Emma. He learns that she's on the run after escaping from Purgatory, and takes it upon himself to protect her and ultimately be the father figure he never had the chance to be on Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** i was super lucky to be able to work with allovely, who created an adorable piece of art that i couldn't wait to write for! thank you for being so patient and supportive when dealing with my ridiculous indecisiveness and plot changes :) her art post is [right over here](http://allovely.livejournal.com/1027.html)! beta skills by Alexis, stray-comma-catching extraordinaire.

* * *

 

Dean hopes Sam won't see him die.

Have him walk in and see his body after the fact, sure—after all, Dean doesn't want a fucking demon to nab his meatsuit now that he's gone, so he needs Sam to give him a hunter's funeral—but don't let Sam see the crocotta killing him and extracting his soul. He doesn't want his brother to remember him that way, his face pale and eyes dark, the life literally sucked out of him.

Dean berates himself after realizing that there's nothing he can do to stop this. Should've known better. Crocottas are bush league; he was close enough to getting grabbed by one when it imitated Dad, so he should've been on his toes this time around, known the signs and warnings. But it sounded just like Sammy…it was Sammy.

The crocotta tightens its grip on his jaw, its eyes lighting up with glee as Dean struggles, his fingers grasping desperately for the knife that’s just an inch too far for him to reach. Dean can't move; no matter how hard he wills his body to try, he just lays there on the floor, his head getting lighter and lighter from the gash across his chest. His vision's going blurry and his head drops to the floor with a heavy thunk when the crocotta lets him go. It crouches down and observes him for a few seconds, and Dean struggles to make his mouth form words one last time.

"S'mmy."

The crocotta smiles wickedly at him, exposing its jagged, blood-stained teeth. "Sorry, Dean-o. No Sammy." The crocotta fists one hand in his hair, another back at his jaw, there’s a sickening twist, and in a matter of seconds, everything goes black.

  

* * *

 

Dean feels grass prickling into his back when he eventually comes to, and when he opens his eyes, he has to squint to avoid staring right into the sun shining down on him. He grits his teeth and shades his eyes with his arm as he forces himself up into a sitting position.

He’s sitting in the middle of some kind of field, unable to see anything but bright green grass and flowers for miles. The sky is that perfect shade of blue people always talk about, without a single cloud floating around. A soft breeze ripples against his shirt, and he looks down at the small waves being made in the well-worn flannel.

He pats his chest, expecting his palm to be covered in the blood that was there just moments before, but there’s nothing. He’s wearing the same outfit he had on when the crocotta grabbed him, but there’s no blood stains, no rips or tears, and, upon further inspection, no injuries.

“What the hell,” he mutters, getting unsteadily to his feet.

“Not ‘what the hell,’” a way-too-excited voice says. Dean spins, automatically assuming a defensive stance, and takes in an elderly couple that look as spry as a couple of twenty-somethings.

“Uh, wh--”

“You’re in Heaven now, son!” The man claps him on the back hard enough to make Dean stumble, and the woman envelops him in a giant hug.

“Welcome!” she chirps.

“I...thank you?” Dean’s arms are pinned to his sides as the woman continues her hug. When she finally releases him, she looks at him, beaming.

“Means you died, of course,” the man says. “Condolences on that, by the way. But now you’re here!”

“I’m...shi-- _ucks_.” He furrows his brows together, because he most definitely didn’t just say “shucks.” Dean Winchester doesn’t say “shucks.”

He tries again. “Fu-- _dge_. Sh-- _ellfish_. B-- _each_.” He stares at the couple, silently asking for an explanation.

The man chuckles. “No swearing in Heaven, son.”

“What do you mean no--I swore two seconds ago!”

“Your censor must have taken a little longer to come into effect. It should be working all right now.”

Dean puts one hand on his hip and scrubs the other over his mouth. “What the fu-- _g_...da-- _rn_ it!”

“It takes some getting used to, but trust us, sweetie, you’ll stop using them in no time.” The woman takes his hand in hers and smiles warmly at him.

_No fucking way that’s happening_ , Dean thinks, and is pleasantly surprised to find that his thoughts remain uncensored. _Fuck yeah, motherfucker!_

“Who are you?” Dean asks, using his free hand to point between the two of them.

The man wraps an arm around the woman’s shoulders and pulls her close. “Tom and June, your very own Heavenly Ambassadors! At your service, Mister…?”

“Uh, Winchester. Dean.”

“At your service, Dean Winchester! Now, where would you like to start?”

“Can’t I just, I don’t know, do this myself?”

“It’s not recommended,” Tom says slowly, “but--”

“Yeah, no, I’ll do this myself. Thanks for the, uh, hug, though.” He nods at the two of them, then starts walking.

 

* * *

 

Heaven is...weird. It’s beautiful, yeah, and in a seemingly perpetual state of perfect weather, but everyone is incredibly happy to see him, hence the weirdness. They don’t know what he’s done, how he acted, or what he believed in when he was alive, but he guesses that him landing a spot in Heaven is good enough for them. He’s been offered four slices of pie so far, and after each one, he swears he’ll never taste anything better...and then someone hands him another slice. Dean notices Tom and June again, standing off to the side and laughing with another couple. They catch sight of him and wave excitedly, as if he hadn’t just turned tail and run away from them and their attempts to be helpful. Dean returns the wave hesitantly, forcing himself to give them a polite smile.

After walking for another half mile or so, Dean starts to wonder if he should’ve taken Tom and June up on their offer of a tour when he stumbles across a small, vacant house. It looks old: the paint is faded in places, a couple of shutters are slightly crooked, and the grass could use a quick mow, but Dean is immediately attracted to it. There’s a one-car garage attached to the side of the house at the end of the gravel driveway, and Dean leans on the mailbox, wondering whose house he was unintentionally ogling, and if they’d be creeped out if they saw him doing so.

He glances down at the mailbox, then drops his arm when he notices the D. WINCHESTER that’s started scripting itself across the side of the box. He stares as the letters keep forming until his whole name is written, then looks back up at the house.

“Aw, that’s a nice little place!”

Dean jumps; he knows he shouldn’t be surprised to see them, but there are Tom and June, smiling again and admiring...well, his house, apparently. He manages to bite back a startled Jesus, though, and gives them another smile.

“So, uh, this is mine?”

They nod.

“And it could’ve been yours even sooner if you’d let us help you find it, silly!” June slaps him playfully on the arm that had been broken in three different places just a few hours ago.

“Ha. Yeah.” Dean looks back at the house. “So this is all mine? Like, for good?”

“For all of eternity,” Tom says. “Do you like it?”

“I...yeah. I do.”

“Wonderful!” June beams again, and Dean wonders if there’s ever a time when she’s not delighted.

“Why don’t we let you get situated, Dean,” Tom says, wrapping an arm around June’s shoulders. “We’re right down the road if you need anything at all.”

Dean nods his thanks, and just like that, his new neighbors are gone. He walks through the yard and is about to ascend the three cement steps up to the front door when Tom appears in front of him. He can’t hold back the swear this time.

“F-- _ish_!”

Goddamn it. He needs to find a way to get around this censor thing.

“June just had the best idea; we should have you over for dinner tonight!”

Dean can feel his cheeks flush, and he shakes his head. “No, it’s okay, I don’t--”

“It’s no trouble at all, consider it your ‘welcome to Heaven’ party!” Tom grins at him. “So, what d’you say, see you around seven?”

Dean takes a deep breath, then looks at Tom. “Sure. Seven.”

Once Tom has left again, Dean hesitantly pushes open the door to his house. He’s half-expecting someone to jump out of the shadows and attack him for breaking in, so it takes him a few minutes after turning the lights on to get used to the fact that no, this is his.

He wanders into the living room, where an overstuffed couch, a couple of chairs, a fireplace, and a flatscreen TV are waiting for him. He collapses onto the couch and lets himself sink into the cushions with a contented sigh.

“Not bad,” Dean says, unsure if he’s addressing Heaven or God or someone completely different. He looks around some more and notices the record player in the corner, as well as shelves filled with records.

“Aw, f--” He cuts himself off and thinks his next thought instead. Fuck, yeah! He gets to his feet and heads over to the record player, then thumbs through the records, all of which are by his favorite bands. He isn’t sure what he wants to listen to, and there’s already a record sitting on top of the turntable, so he adjusts the needle and turns it on.

The Black Keys.

A record called _Brothers_.

He raises his eyebrows. He’s never heard them before, but he leaves it playing softly as he explores the rest of the house. The kitchen is small, with a single warm yellow bulb illuminating the entire room. He opens the fridge and isn’t surprised to find stacks of his favorite foods inside, the same with the cabinets. The bathroom has a gigantic shower--with spectacular water pressure, he’s sure--and his bedroom is exactly the way he imagined it’d be when he was young. A few framed comic books line the walls, and there’s an oversized _Star Wars_ poster framed over his bed.

Oh, shit, his _bed_.

Dean flops down onto it, and he doesn’t know how it’s possible--of course he does, he’s in fucking Heaven--but it’s even more comfortable than the couch. He lets out a small moan of pleasure and rolls over onto his stomach, mashing his face into the pillow. When he eventually turns his head, he notices the small box on the nightstand, MAGIC FINGERS written across it in faded cursive. Dean gapes at it. There’s no slot for quarters, just a button, and when Dean reaches out and presses it, the bed starts to vibrate. His eyes slide shut, and he smiles, flipping himself onto his back again and letting the fingers do their thing.

 

* * *

 

As Dean heads back to the living room at the end of his impromptu massage session, he decides that he likes the Black Keys. He makes a mental note to tell Sam about--

Dean freezes.

He takes a deep breath as everything hits him all at once, and makes a beeline for the couch before his legs give out on him.

“Sammy,” he says softly, bringing his hands together and tenting them over his nose and mouth. He blinks back the tears that are threatening to fall, and notices the array of framed pictures placed on the shelves near the TV. He walks over and grabs one before returning back to the couch, which suddenly doesn’t feel as comfortable as he remembers.

It’s a picture of him, Sammy, and their mom, presumably taken by his dad. Dean chews on the edge of his lower lip as he runs his thumb across the frame, letting it ghost over his mom’s face, then Sam’s.

Damn it, Sammy.

“You’ll like it here, Sam,” he says softly. “Everyone’s nice. Happy to see me. _Me_ , can you believe it?” He chuckles without humor. “I bet you could have like, eight dogs here if you wanted, man.” He glances back down at their mom, all smiles and glowing skin and motherly love. “I’m not gonna go see her without you, though, dude.” He almost adds that Sam should hurry up, but then he realizes what that means, and bites his tongue.

Dean positions the frame on the coffee table in front of him, then kicks his feet up and crosses them at the ankle. He closes his eyes, and after what feels like five minutes, he’s jerked out of his nap by a consistent knocking on his front door.

Who the fuck--Dean stumbles to his feet and opens the door--oh.

“Did you forget about us?” Tom asks, flashing another wide smile at Dean. “It’s seven-thirty; dinner’s already on the table!”

“Seven-thirty,” Dean repeats, dragging a hand down over his face. “Right. Sorry, I...I guess I fell asleep.”

“No need to apologize, Dean-o!” Dean shudders unconsciously as he remembers the last time he was called that. “If I may?”

“If you may…what?”

Tom pauses, then snaps his fingers. “Of course,” he says, “you haven’t seen this yet. Well, Dean, if you’ll just grab my hand--”

Before Dean can react, Tom reaches over and snatches up Dean’s hand, then snaps his fingers. In the span of a blink, they’ve been transported from Dean’s front door to Tom and June’s living room.

“Dean!” June squeals as if she hasn’t seen Dean in years, runs over, and gives him another hug. “So glad you could make it. Do you like chicken?”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Dean’s sitting at the dining room table, his fork scraping against his plate as he scoops up the last few remnants of apple pie.

“This,” he says, pointing to the now empty plate, his mouth still half-full, “is awesome.”

“Well, I wish I could take credit,” June says, glancing over at her husband, “but this is all Tom. He worked in a bakery for forty years back on Earth.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”

Tom grins proudly. “I made an extra; we’ll send it home with you.”

“Really?”

“Of course!”

“Thanks.” Dean smiles and pushes his plate back, turning his attention to the glass of milk on his left.

“So, Dean,” June says, “what did you do way back when?”

Dean pauses and peeks at her over his glass. “I, uh, my brother and I ran a business. Extermination.”

“Extermination?”

“Of, like, pests and stuff.”

“That must’ve been fun, working with your brother,” Tom says.

Dean nods. “Yeah. I mean, close quarters a lot of the time, lots of travel, but yeah. I wouldn’t change it.”

“Do you have any family here already?”

Dean opens his mouth, but then closes it, rethinking the complications of his family’s eccentric history with death. Finally, he decides on, “Still waiting.”

June tsks and reaches across the table, covering Dean’s hand with her own. “Honey, if you need anything at all, Tom and I are always here, okay?”

“Uh, thank you.” Dean looks from June to Tom and back again. “What about you guys?”

“Well, you already know I was a baker, and Junie here was a writer.”

“What’d you write?”

“Magazine articles, mostly. Some books.”

“Huh.” Dean leans back in his chair, thinking this over. “I wonder if my little brother has read any of your stuff. He’s such a geek.”

“Maybe he did,” June says, smiling warmly at Dean.

“So, uh, do you guys have any other family here?”

“Not yet,” Tom says. “Waiting for our son, though.” He and June exchange glances, and Dean suddenly understands their overwhelming welcome. He’s sure they’re nice people in general, but he also knows what it’s like to have a giant part of your life missing, and how you’ll do almost anything, get almost anybody, to fill that hole.

“Ah.” He sets down his glass and gets to his feet. “Well, I really enjoyed visiting you guys--thanks for having me--but I think I’m gonna head back and crash, if that’s okay with you.”

“Oh, sweetie, of course!” June bounces up and hurries into the kitchen to grab the pie Dean was promised. Tom walks over and offers his hand, which Dean accepts.

“Visit any time, all right?”

“Thanks,” Dean says, just as June presses the still-warm pie into Dean’s hands. Tom makes to snap his fingers, but Dean stops him. “Oh! Hey, uh, would it be okay if I just...walked back?”

Tom and June look at him curiously.

“Just want to see a little bit more of the place, y’know.” Dean shrugs. “Especially at night. I bet the stars are...nice.”

“Of course,” June says, giving Dean one more hug for the road. “Just be safe, though.”

Dean wants to laugh at this, but he forces himself not to. Be safe in Heaven. Okay.

“Have a good night, Dean,” Tom says, clapping him on the back. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for having me.” Dean lifts the pie up slightly as an added thank you and heads out the door.

The temperature hasn’t changed since that afternoon, and there aren’t any lights to obstruct Dean’s view of the stars. He’s never seen them this clearly, and if he’s being honest with himself, it’s a little overwhelming, even with all the shit he’s seen in his lifetime. He hears something snap nearby, and it makes him wonder if animals can get into Heaven. He decides that second that they can, and he looks up at the stars again, pie held close to his chest.

It’s then that he feels something slam into him, knocking him to the ground.

“What the f _mmph_!”

He was expecting the censor to kick in again, sure, but he wasn’t prepared for someone to hate his swearing so much that they’d clamp their hand down hard over his mouth. He feels a heavy weight on his chest as someone straddles his body, pinning him to the ground. He yells through the hand and tries to shove his assailant off of him, but they don’t budge. Dean’s eyes widen when a girl’s pale face looks down at him. Most of her face is still shrouded in the night’s shadows, but he can see her eyes, wide and panicked.

“Please stop yelling,” she whispers. “I need help. Please.”

Dean ignores her, wondering if he’s close enough to Tom and June’s for them to hear him.

“Please,” she says. “Something’s after me. I need help.”

Dean goes still at that. He taps the back of her hand, letting her know that he won’t yell anymore, but that he needs to be able to communicate. She looks at him skeptically, but slowly lifts her hand.

“What’s after you?” he asks softly.

“I-I don’t know. I need somewhere to hide. Please.”

Just then, there’s more snapping and crashing echoing in the distance. The girl looks over her shoulder, her eyes wide, and Dean nudges urgently at her leg.

“Let me up, let me up, let me up.” She startles, as if she’s just now noticing Dean’s presence, and jumps off of him, her movements shaky.

A deep voice booms through the darkness that makes Dean’s skin crawl. “C’mon, hon, where are you? Let’s get this over with, huh?”

“That’s them,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “They’re coming!”

Dean scrambles to his feet and looks around. He has no idea how far away they are from his house, but there’s no sign of civilization that he can see, and panic starts to weed its way into his gut. He turns to the girl--literally, she’s just a girl, twelve or thirteen--and grabs her shoulder.

“Can you do the snap thing?”

She’s still staring off into the distance, frozen in place. “The snap thing?”

Dean follows her gaze, and that’s when he notices two pairs of tiny red eyes--no bigger than laser pointers--glowing out from the darkness. They’re getting closer by the second, and this is not how Dean expected his first night of the afterlife to go.

“The thing where you snap and end up somewhere else!” He pauses; he’s turned away from the eyes, but they can both hear the crashing sounds getting closer and closer still, moving at an almost superhuman speed. “No better time to try,” he mutters. With that, Dean grabs her hand, thinks about his house, and snaps his fingers.

They stumble into Dean’s living room, and Dean lunges forward before turning away from the girl for a second to try and get his bearings.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. You want to tell me what that was abo…”

He trails off when he faces her again, getting a good look at her for the first time. The last thing he’s expecting to see is a pair of eyes almost identical to his staring back at him. No, this isn’t possible. She was an Amazon, a fucking monster, she’s not supposed to be here.

“Emma.”

“How did you--”

Dean stares at his daughter, who seems to be arriving at the same realization he just did. Her jaw goes slack, and he takes a few hesitant steps back, keeping his eyes locked on Emma, and feels around until his fingers curl around the closest weapon he can find, an iron poker for the fireplace. Right when he does so, though, Emma makes a break for the door. Dean lets out a gasp and hurls himself forward, managing to cover the door with his body right before she can grab the knob.

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ , hold on a sec,” he says, swinging the poker around and pointing it at Emma to force her backward a few steps. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do, girlie.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Emma stares at Dean, her eyes wide. She looks down at her hand, then starts frantically snapping her fingers. She keeps trying, getting more and more frustrated when it doesn’t work, and Dean smirks.

“Nice try,” he says, “but snap’s for Heaven residents only.”

She looks up at Dean, and for a second, he feels a pang of guilt for making light of his daughter’s panic. His murderous, Amazonian, could-kill-Dean-in-his-sleep-if-he’s-not-careful daughter, but still.

“You’re not gonna throw me out, are you?” she asks, and her voice cracks with fear.

“I’ll ask the questions,” Dean says, stepping forward and forcing Emma to walk until she’s standing in front of the couch. Dean points the poker down at it. “Sit.” She sits, and he drops into one of the nearby chairs, studying her.

“Please don’t--”

“Monsters become permanent citizens of Purgatory when they die,” Dean says, more to himself than to Emma. “How’d you get here?”

Emma stares at him, and he can see her eyes brimming with tears. “I snuck out,” she says quietly. “I had to get out of there.”

Dean purses his lips; he knows how that feels, but that still doesn’t answer the question of how she hopped the fence and ended up in Heaven. “Specifics.”

Emma’s hands are twisted in her lap, and she doesn’t look at Dean when she speaks next. “There’s a portal there. It can get you here, if you have the ingredients for the right spell.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “And you just happened to find the right ingredients?” he asks flatly.

“It took me a long time, but yeah, I finally got them all.”

“Oh, good for you,” Dean says, giving her a sarcastic round of applause.

Emma looks up at him, tears gone, her face hard. “Don’t you dare,” she says. “You don’t know what it’s like--”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, okay.” He decides to omit his own time in Purgatory from the conversation; it’s not something he wants to relive, especially not in front of his fucking daughter.

Emma glares at him and leans back against the couch cushions, her arms folded across her chest, and for the first time, Dean is reminded of a regular pouty preteen.

“The portal’s for humans,” he says slowly. “Just humans.”

Emma shakes her head. “It used to be, until they found a way to trick it. If you can pull that off, you’re golden.”

“And you just happened to find a way to trick it.”

“I already told you that I did. And that’s how I ended up here.”

Dean leans back in the chair, resting the poker across his knees. “And those things were chasing you…”

“Because I’m not supposed to be here,” Emma finishes. “If they catch me…” Her voice trails off, but Dean doesn’t need her to finish. “They won’t leave without me,” she says quietly. “But I can’t go back there. I won’t.”

“How do you expect to keep them off your tail?”

Emma gives him her best hopeful smile and innocent eyes. His own eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Whoa, no, no, no. No way.”

She looks at him exasperatedly. “Come on, please--”

“You tried to kill me when I was alive, and you made me drop my pie now that I’m dead!” Dean snaps. “Tell me, just how much sympathy should I be giving you right now?”

“A lot!”

Dean barks out a laugh. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Now tell me, why shouldn’t I just let those things come in here and drag you back to Purgatory, huh?”

Emma opens her mouth to answer, but closes it again just as quickly. She pauses for a few seconds, then studies him. “Because I’m your daughter,” she finally says.

Dean feels his face flush, and Emma gives him a small smile, knowing she’s on the right track.

“Please,” she says again. “Just...help me.”

Dean stares at her, and she stares right back, unblinking. Finally, he sighs. “This isn’t permanent,” he says. “We’re figuring out how to get those things off your scent, and then you’re gone. Understand?”

Emma nods again, and gives Dean a small smile. “Thank you,” she says softly.

Dean gets to his feet and motions for her to follow him. “C’mon,” he says. “Bed.”

“But--”

Dean gives Emma a warning look, and she pouts, stands up, and follows him to the guest bedroom. “Your room,” he says, leaning against the door as she takes a few steps inside. She turns around to face him, her eyes suddenly suspicious. “You’re not gonna turn me in while I’m asleep, are you?”

“Only if you don’t kill me while I’m asleep.”

Emma gives him a humorless grin. “Deal.”

Dean nods, then turns to leave, closing the door behind him. He presses his ear to the door, trying to hear if Emma is sneaking out, but when he doesn’t hear anything, he feels his shoulders start to relax a little.

He walks down the hallway and into the kitchen, grabs a chair, and jams it up under the doorknob of Emma’s room. The door opens out, not in, and there’s no way Emma’s getting the jump on him tomorrow morning. Once he’s sure that it’s secure, he heads back to the living room and collapses onto the couch. For a few minutes, he wonders what the fuck he’s doing, but then he rummages around under the coffee table and pulls out a laptop.

If Emma’s going to stay with him, he needs to protect her, and protecting her means making sure that she blends in as much as possible.

 

* * *

 

Dean is woken up the next morning by an incessant pounding on wood, and the events from last night come swarming back to him. He sits up, rubbing the back of his head as he looks blearily at the still-open laptop and a small stack of notes he’d taken earlier.

“Je-- _iminy cricket_ ,” he mutters, then smacks the palm of his hand on the table in frustration. The pounding keeps coming, and now it’s accompanied by yelling, as well.

“Let me out!” Emma yells, each word punctuated by another bang against the door. “Hey! Hey! I swear to God, if you--”

She’s cut off as Dean shoves the chair to the side and opens the door, looking amusedly at her. “What,” he says, “you thought I was gonna let my killer daughter loose in the house?”

“I thought you trapped me,” Emma grumbles, pushing past him and heading for the kitchen.

“Well, I didn’t.”

“What d’you want, a medal?”

Dean raises his eyebrows, half annoyed and half surprised at how much she sounds and acts like him. “Hey, cut back on the attitude, missy.”

Emma purses her lips and throws him a curt look over her shoulder. “What’s for breakfast?”

She takes a seat at the kitchen table and Dean walks past her, grabs his notes, and plops them down in front of her. “These.”

Emma stares at him, picking up one sheet and letting it flutter back to the tabletop.

“Knowledge is power, kiddo,” Dean says, grabbing his own chair and cracking his knuckles. “We’re laying down a few ground rules here, capiche?”

Emma leans back in her chair, folds her arms across her chest again, and looks off to the side. “I guess.”

“Nothing...evil, for starters.”

Emma smirks, but nods. Dean continues, ticking off each requirement on his finger. “I looked it up last night, and you’re gonna do everything a regular kid in Heaven does. Go to school, do homework, maybe throw an extracurricular in there. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Just blend in until we figure out what to do, got it?”

Emma sighs.

“Got it?”

“Got it,” Emma snaps. “God.”

Dean points at her. “Don’t take that tone with me. I’ll have you out on your a-- _ccordion_ in a second.”

Emma stares at him, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “My what?”

“Forget it,” Dean says, berating himself for forgetting about the stupid goddamn fucking censor.

“Did you say you were gonna throw me out on my accordion?”

“No.” Dean sounds like a petulant five-year-old, and he knows it. “It’s a long story, okay?”

Emma’s grin widens as she starts to put the pieces together. “You can’t swear here, can you?”

Dean glares at her, and she laughs.

“Shit,” she says, and her eyes light up with glee.

Dean gapes at her, too shocked to try and reprimand her for swearing. “How’d you do that?”

She shrugs. “Nice try, but swearing’s for non-Heaven residents only.”

Dean gets to his feet and points at her. “You’re grounded.”

“The hell I am!”

He stalks to the fridge and yanks the door open, rummaging around inside before pulling out a small container of butter.

“Go.” He tosses her the small, fluorescent yellow square and waves her away. “Make a waffle or something.”

Emma chuckles, turning the butter over and over in her hands. “You want one?”

Dean pauses, trying to decide if his hunger or his dignity was more important.

“Two, please.”

 

“Why do I need to go to school?” Emma asks through a mouthful of waffle.

“I thought we already agreed that you would,” Dean says, not taking his eyes off the laptop screen, where he’s registering Emma at the nearest school.

“I’m not saying I won’t, I just want to know why.”

“Normal kids go to school, and you need to look normal so whatever those things are don’t try to come after you.” He closes the laptop and turns to her. “There. You start tomorrow.”

“Hooray.” She finishes her waffle, letting the plate clatter down onto the table. She looks at the TV, then starts searching for a remote. “Does this work?”

“‘Course it works.”

“Can I watch stuff?”

“Later on you can,” he says, grabbing their plates and dropping them into the sink, like he’d seen Sam do countless times in those cheap-ass motel kitchenettes.

“Why not now?”

“You,” he says, turning around and pointing at her, “need school supplies.”

A silent little thrill runs through Dean when he and Emma walk into the garage and a carbon copy of the Impala is waiting for him.

“Aw, baby,” he says, sliding his hand along the cool black metal, grinning to himself as he feels each of the little divots and dents that are on the original. He’s so lost in his reverie that he doesn’t notice Emma staring at him.

“You’re weird,” she says.

Dean ignores her, opting instead to pull the door open with a satisfying creak. “Let’s find a...school supplies place,” he says, reaching over the seats and propping open the passenger side door.

It feels weird having someone other than Sam sitting in the front seat next to him, but Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t want the company. There’s no traffic, it’s the perfect temperature to keep the windows rolled down, and even better, there are no birds in sight to shit on his windshield. He glances over at Emma every so often, watching as she takes in Heaven, the exact opposite of the darkness, fear, and blood of Purgatory, and he hopes that she feels safer here. Even if it’s just a little bit.

Ten minutes later, they pull into the Staples parking lot, and there’s a spot right in front of the doors waiting for them. Dean raises his eyebrows, impressed. Looks like Heaven can have its perks. He and Emma climb out of the car and enter the store, and Dean is pleased to see that everyone looks friendly, but nobody comes running up to them, haranguing them about needing help or finding the perfect deal on this or that item. It’s just the way he likes it, not too pushy, but there if help is needed.

“Ooh,” Emma says, immediately running over to a display of brightly-colored notebooks and binders. She starts flipping through them, then gets distracted by the rows and rows of colorful pens the next aisle over. “Ooh!”

Before Dean knows it, he’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder, his arms are laden with stretchy textbook covers, boxes of pens--regular _and_ gel--and colored pencils, two binders, packages of looseleaf paper, and at least eight notebooks, a giant yellow cartoon puppy smiling up at him from the top one’s cover. He looks at Emma, who’s trying to decide between a planner with glittery stars and one with puppies and kittens stumbling over each other.

He nudges her with his elbow while trying to keep the leaning tower of school supplies intact. “Go for the stars,” he says. “You’ve already got enough puppies running around here to open an animal shelter.”

“Maybe,” she says, looking up at him quickly before running off to grab some neon-colored sticky notes.

When they bring all their items to the register, they learn that Heaven doesn’t have a currency. The employees are just there to help if needed, but everything is free.

“Huh,” Dean says, grabbing a few plastic bags and scooping Emma’s school supplies into them. As he does so, he notices the planner she picked out--the stars--and he allows himself a small smile.

“Do you really think you need this much stuff?” he asks, dropping the bags in the backseat.

“I’ve got twelve years of school to make up for, gotta be prepared.”

Dean shrugs, pulling the Impala out of the parking lot. “Guess so.”

They drive along in silence for a few minutes, until Emma speaks up again. “I know what I want my...extra thing to be.”

“Your extra thing?”

She wiggles her hand, trying to remember the word. “The extra thing, after school.”

“An extracurricular?”

“Yes! That.”

“What?”

“Dance.”

Dean pauses; dance was the last thing he thought she’d want to do. “Yeah?”

Emma nods.

“Why’s that?”

“Because they’re strong, but they’re graceful, too,” Emma says. “I like that.”

Dean nods. “Good enough for me. We’ll sign you up tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Later that day, Dean decides to do some detective work and see if it’s possible for him to get in touch with anyone else in Heaven, like an Angelic Yellow Pages. He types in a few stray keywords to get his search started, his actions soundtracked by the latest episode of Sponge-Whoever that Emma’s watching. It’s the sixth episode that day, and it shows no signs of stopping. Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Right when Patrick decides to enter his pet rock into a snail-racing competition--a fucking _rock_ , what is happening, Dean thinks--is when Dean finds what he’s looking for. He snaps his fingers and starts typing into a web page that calls itself the “Heavenly Directory.” It only takes a few seconds for the system to find the person he’s looking for.

**Bobby Singer**   
**4815 Parsippany Lane**   
**Quadrant 3, Heaven**   
**The Universe**

He taps the screen softly, then grabs a pen and a scrap piece of paper and scribbles the information down. He looks up at the TV; Emma’s gotten bored with SpongeBob and has now switched to _Adventure Time_ , which looks to Dean like seven different stoners threw together everything that was floating in their heads and turned it into a TV show. He recognizes the yellow dog, Jake, as the same one on the cover of one of Emma’s new notebooks. He waits until there’s a commercial break to get Emma’s attention.

“What kinda pizza do you like?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Dean drops an overly sleepy Emma off at school. She had stayed up too late watching TV, insisting that she could handle it, and had fallen asleep on the way to school with her head resting against the window.

“Hey,” Dean says softly, shaking her shoulder gently. “Up and at ‘em, kiddo.”

Emma lets out a soft groan of protest, but eventually opens her eyes and stretches out. She reaches for the door handle, but before she can open it, Dean grabs her backpack so she can’t leave.

“What’d we talk about?”

Emma pauses, then jerks her backpack out of Dean’s grip. “Don’t draw attention to myself.”

“Good.” He watches as she opens the door and climbs out of the car, then glances back at him. As if on impulse, he waves. “Have a good first day.”

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take him long to find Bobby’s place, a small, one-story house with a big yard. He parks in the street--another heavenly perk: no need to worry about speeding tickets--and makes his way to the front door. When he raises his hand to knock, it hits him that he doesn’t even know how Bobby will react to seeing him up here. Too late to think about that now, though; taking a quick breath, Dean knocks four times. He can hear noises from inside the house, things shuffling around, and then he’s face-to-face with Bobby.

Dean grins. “Heya, Bobby.”

Bobby freezes and stares at him for a few seconds, then reaches forward and wraps Dean in one of the tightest hugs he’s ever experienced. Dean pats him awkwardly on the back to let him know that the older man is essentially crushing his ribs, and Bobby pushes Dean back a few steps, keeping a firm grip on Dean’s shoulders.

“What’n the hell are you doing up here, boy?” he finally says.

“What does it look like? I died.” Dean pauses, then stares at Bobby. “Wait, did you just swear?”

“Of course I did, ya idjit, do you not know who you’re talkin’ to?”

“No, no, no, I mean you swore without that fu-- _dging_ \--” Dean squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment “--censor.”

Bobby chuckles, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder before ushering him inside. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

 

“You’re doing _wha_ t?”

“Bobby, I--”

“I can’t believe you, Dean, what the hell are you thinking? She’ll kill you!”

Dean’s sitting across from Bobby, an elbow on his knee, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Bobby, you think I don’t know it’s fucking dangerous?”

Bobby had shown Dean a trick on how to disable the censor, and now Dean wants to take advantage of his newly-returned ability as much as possible. He looks up at the older hunter and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“You’re damn right it’s dangerous!” Bobby spits.

“I just need--”

“You just _need_ to get that girl the hell out of your house!”

Dean smacks his hand on the coffee table. “She’s my daughter, Bobby.” He watches as the hunter’s resolve wavers a little. “My daughter,” he repeats, more to himself than to Bobby. “She could’ve run into anybody that night, but she ran into me, and I can’t just leave her. I won’t, okay? I won’t.” He takes a deep breath, then looks up at Bobby. “So will you help me or not?”

Bobby leans back in his chair and drags his hand down over his mouth. “You’re lucky I’m already dead, boy,” he says sullenly.

Dean brightens. “That’s a yes, right?”

Bobby glares at him. “I don’t like it, but I’ve run into your damn pigheadedness more than once; if I don’t say yes now, you’ll just hound me till I do.”

Dean smirks. “You know me too well. You’re a gentleman and a scholar, Bobby.”

Bobby waves him off. “Don’t thank me yet. I can put together something to throw the Purgatory Police off your trail for a little while, but nothing’s permanent, understand? You’ve still gotta be careful.”

“Of course. How long will it take to put together?”

“Shouldn’t be more’n an hour or so.” Bobby goes to work digging through his drawers to find the appropriate ingredients for his concoction when a small beeping noise echoes throughout Bobby’s house, as if someone’s about to start speaking through an intercom.

“What the hell is that?”

“No phones in Heaven; it’s how the powers that be get ahold of you if they need to.”

“Hello, Mr. Winchester!” a female voice says brightly, and Dean startles. He looks at Bobby, who shrugs.

“Uh, hi.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but your presence has been requested at Peterson Elementary School, as soon as possible, please. Thank you!”

Dean feels his cheeks flush after the announcement’s conclusion and glances at Bobby, who’s got a small smirk on his face.

“She’ll be no trouble, huh?”

“No,” Dean says, heading for the door. “No trouble at all.”

 

* * *

 

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean is sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair next to Emma, who is staring down at her hands.  She didn’t look at him when he entered the office, and hasn’t raised her head since he sat down. Dean keeps looking at her for a few more seconds, wondering if she can feel his eyes on her, if she’ll look up and explain what the hell she was thinking, doing something bad enough that he had to get called in to mop up the mess.

"Mr. Winchester."

"Uh, yeah?"

The woman sighs. Dean notices a brass nameplate on the desk—he's speaking with Mrs. Dolores Henderson, Principal.

"Do you have anything to say regarding Emma's behavior?"

"I...what happened?" Dean asks.

"Emma got in a fight with Suzie Klein at recess."

Dean closes his eyes and hopes that he looks frustrated with his daughter. "Why?" he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's seen concerned parents do on TV.

Mrs. Henderson looks at Emma expectantly. "Well, Emma?"

Emma shifts in her seat. "She was making fun of Savannah. Savannah started crying, and I asked Suzie to stop, but she wouldn't."

"And why did you think that was a good reason to hit Suzie?"

Emma straightens and looks Mrs. Henderson right in the eye. "Because Savannah's nice," she says. “I’d like her to be my friend, and I don’t like it when people hurt my friends."

Dean quirks an eyebrow and looks at Emma. Huh. Maybe she did have more of him in her than he thought.

"Violence is never the answer, Emma—" Mrs. Henderson is cut off by a scoff from Dean, and she glares at him. "Do you disagree with me, Mr. Winchester?"

He leans back in his chair, suddenly relaxed. "I'm not gonna tell her not to stand up for her friends."

Mrs. Henderson's eyes narrow. "She could have told a teacher."

Dean barks out a laugh. "What, and be known as a snitch for the rest of her elementary-school afterlife?" He gets to his feet and holds out his hand for Emma to take. "Listen, Dolores—" she blanches at that "—I wasn't there, but I'm sure that Suzie chick had it coming. Emma asked her to stop, she didn't, so Emma clocked her. 's what I would've done."

Mrs. Henderson gapes at him, and Emma looks up at Dean, a faint smile playing on her lips. She takes his hand, and he squeezes it a little.

"So if you'll excuse us," Dean continues, "we'll be leaving now. See ya never."

 

* * *

 

"Are you really not ma—"

Dean turns and grabs Emma by the shoulders. She stares at him, wide-eyed.

“I thought I told you to keep a low profile? Is this what you call not drawing attention to yourself?”

Emma pulls herself out of Dean’s grip, staring at him. “You said it’s what you would’ve done.”

Dean lets go of Emma and takes a step back. “Yeah, it’s what I would’ve done if I didn’t have Purgatory on my ass!”

Emma pauses, then grins at him. “Hey, you can swear.”

“I...yes, I can, but that’s besides the point!” Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets and tries to calm himself down. “Listen, I’ve got a friend who can put together something to keep Purgatory off your scent for a little while, but it’s not permanent, and it’s not ready yet. So you’ve gotta be careful until it is, and even after it is, got it?”

“Mhmm.” A pause, then, “Am I grounded?”

"What? No." Dean waves the suggestion away, and Emma pumps her fist. "That doesn't mean I'm gonna let you go around punching people, though."

"But you said—"

"That was just to piss off your principal. Don't punch people."

Emma lets out an exaggerated sigh and kicks at a pebble as they walk across the parking lot. "Fiiiiine."

“Now come on, we’ve gotta go pick up your little bag of anti-Purgatory tricks.”

 

* * *

 

Dean’s surprised by how well Bobby handles meeting his Amazonian daughter. Sure, it definitely wasn’t the warmest of welcomes, but Dean can’t ask for much more other than the brief stare and tight, quick nod that Bobby allows before ushering them inside.

“Here,” Bobby says, taking a necklace and slipping it over Emma’s head. There’s a small vial attached to the chain that’s filled with a swirling purple liquid, and Emma studies it before looking back up at Bobby.

“It’s pretty,” she says.

Bobby grunts. “It’s Heaven.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow as he leans back against Bobby’s desk. “It’s what?”

“Jesus, boy, haven’t you learned anything since you got here?” Bobby rolls his eyes at Dean’s extended middle finger. “It’s heavenly grace, kind of like how angels have their own grace.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“You really want to know?”

Dean stiffens a little, then shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

“Thought so.” Bobby turns his attention back to Emma, who is twirling her fingers around the thin silver chain. She stops immediately when she notices him, letting the necklace drop back down against her chest.

“That’ll make whatever’s after you think you belong here, as a permanent resident. It’s what’s gonna be keeping you safe, so make sure you keep it safe. Never take it off, and don’t let it break.”

Emma nods and quickly tucks the necklace under her shirt.

“How long will it last?” Dean asks.

“Nobody knows for sure, but it’ll at least buy you a little more time.”

Dean worries his lower lip, then nods and straightens up, placing a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby nods, grabbing a tumbler and the nearest bottle of whiskey to pour himself a glass. “Just be careful. Both of you.”

 

* * *

 

Once Emma is in bed later that night, Dean pulls out his own bottle of whiskey and boots up the laptop. First things first, though--he signs Emma up for her dance class. He’s going in blind, has no idea what factors to consider when choosing a dance studio, and ultimately decides on Tip, Tap, Toe Dance Academy (he likes the name), with Amy and Noelle, two young twenty-something women, as her teachers. Once that’s all taken care of, Dean finds himself typing “escape from Purgatory” into the search bar and worrying his lower lip when pages upon pages of results pop up.

“Shit,” he breathes. He takes a pull of the whiskey, makes himself comfortable, and clicks on the first link.

Emma wasn’t lying; it’s hard to find a way to ditch Purgatory, but it is possible, and she pulled it off. There are only a handful of known incidents of creatures escaping Purgatory, and Dean’s little girl is behind one of them. He allows himself a small, proud grin.

He’s pretty sure that a bumper sticker saying “My kid escaped Purgatory” would be way more impressive than “My kid is an honor student.”

He clicks over onto a different page and leans forward interestedly when he sees the title of the page he’s stumbled on: “Penalties for Assisting Purgatory Fugitives.” Dean scans the first few paragraphs until he gets to one written in bold type:

**Any celestial caught aiding a fugitive from Purgatory will immediately be ejected from the Heavenly community, to be relocated to Hell for the rest of eternity.***

Dean raises his eyebrows and takes another sip of whiskey. Good thing I’ve already gotten the grand tour down there. He notices the asterisk at the end of the sentence and keeps scrolling to the end of the page, where he finds an additional paragraph:

***These rules apply to any situation with the exception of--**

His eyes dart away from the screen when he hears a soft moan coming from down the hall. He gets to his feet as quietly as possible and starts making his way toward Emma's room. Her door is closed, but when Dean presses his ear up against it, he hears her whimper this time. He's assuaged with past memories of taking care of Sammy when he was little, of calming him down after a nightmare, and before he can overthink it, he opens the door and pads into his daughter's room.

Emma is tangled in her sheets and comforter, and her face is calm when Dean first sees it, but when he takes a step closer, her eyes squeeze shut tighter and she turns away.

"No," she whimpers, "no, stop! Stop!"

Dean sits on the edge of her bed, being careful not to startle her out of her nightmare.

"Emma?" he asks softly. “Hey, are you okay?"

Emma pulls her blankets tighter and cries out in response, curling in on herself. "No, no!”

"Emma," he repeats, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Em, it's okay, you're okay."

Emma gasps and her eyes shoot open suddenly. She pulls back and stares at Dean with his own bright green eyes, not exactly sure how to react.

Dean instinctively wraps his arm around her shoulders and runs his fingers through her hair. He tries to ignore that she had stiffened at first, and focuses instead on the fact that she’s now leaning into his embrace.

"It's okay," he says soothingly, "it's okay, you're fine."

Emma's breathing is ragged, and Dean keeps stroking her hair and starts rubbing small circles into her back.

"Go back to sleep," Dean says softly. "I'm here, Emma."

It takes a few minutes, but Emma's stiff body eventually relaxes and her breathing falls into a slow, steady rhythm. Dean slides down off her bed and sits on the floor. He tries to brace himself to stand by pressing his palms against the floor when he realizes that Emma is holding his left one. He looks at her small, soft hand cupping his dirty, calloused one, and looks down at the floor with a small smile.

The floor's not _that_ uncomfortable, he reasons as he settles in, pressing his back against the side of Emma's bed, and closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

When Dean wakes up the next morning, Emma's bed is empty.

He rubs sleepily at his eyes and tries to get to his feet, cringing as his joints crack from being stuck in the same uncomfortable position all night.

"'mma?" he slurs, stretching his arms high above his head as he walks down the hall. He can hear the TV playing softly in the living room, and sure enough, Emma is sprawled across the couch, her eyes glued to the latest episode of Sponge-Whoever. She doesn't look at him as he collapses onto the recliner, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"I almost tripped on you this morning," she says.

Dean's cheeks redden a little. "I—oh, sorry."

Emma shrugs.

"So," Dean says awkwardly, "feeling better? You seemed pretty shaken up last night."

Emma bites her lip and locks her eyes back on the TV. "Yeah. I guess."

"Sure about that?"

"Mhmm."

Dean doesn't believe her, and he doesn't know why he's pressing the issue, but he does. "Sometimes it helps to talk about what your dreams are, y'know."

“You won’t get it.” She grabs the blanket that’s tangled down at her feet and tugs it over the rest of her body, curling up in it like it can protect her from Dean’s questions.

Dean stops himself from rolling his eyes. Thanks to Sam, he’s used to these moments of defiance from little kids, and tries to treat Emma the same way he treated Sam. “Try me.”

Emma stays silent, and once Dean assumes that she won’t be telling him anything, she gives him a small piece of information, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was Purgatory.”

Ah, shit. Dean should’ve guessed. “What happened?”

“Stuff.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “I was running, and I got caught. It was dark, so much darker than normal, and…” Her voice trails off and she looks out the window. “Never mind,” she finally says. Dean doesn’t miss her hand swipe underneath her eyes, and he swallows hard as he feels his heart shift up into his throat. He sits down on the arm of the couch and watches Emma looking out the window.

“I’ve been there,” he finally says.

“What?”

Dean smiles without humor. “Purgatory. Was there for a year. Got the T-shirt and everything.”

Emma stares at him, but stays silent.

“D’you believe me?”

Emma huffs out a laugh. “Why would someone lie about going to Purgatory?”

Dean shrugs. “I get nightmares about it, too, sometimes. Or I did. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, understand?” He waits for Emma to nod before continuing. “And you need to know that nothing’s gonna hurt you up here. Okay?”

Emma nods, but averts her gaze again. Dean reaches forward and gently turns her head toward him. "I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Ever.”

Emma doesn't say anything, but she does give him a small, timid smile, and that's good enough for Dean.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a week since Bobby gave Emma the vial of Heaven Juice, and Dean is pleased that nothing has happened. Emma’s gone to school without punching anyone else, she likes her dance class, and she’s actually warming up to Dean, as well.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like her being there, too.

He’s shown her pictures of John, Mary, Sam; basically every picture in the house. He wants her to feel welcome, comfortable, not like he’s planning on throwing her out any time soon, because that’s the furthest thing from his mind. She’s jumpy around Sam’s photo, and Dean mentally smacks himself; of course she’d be freaked out seeing a picture of the guy who killed her.

“He won’t hurt you, Em,” he says, turning her head gently away from the picture of him and Sam.

“He already did.”

Ouch.

“He was just trying to protect me. But he won’t hurt you now,” he tells her. “I won’t let him. Whenever he gets his ass up here, I’ll explain everything, and he’ll be the best uncle ever, okay? I promise.”

Emma turns back to the photo and studies it for a few more seconds before nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Dean smiles and lets out a relieved breath. She might not mean it, might not react well once Sammy actually does get up here, but it’s good enough for now.

 


	4. Chapter 4

"Crack it against the bowl," Dean says, stepping behind Emma and guiding her hand that's holding the egg toward the edge of the metal mixing bowl. "Don't hit it hard, though, or the thing'll explode all over the place, and I'll tell you right now, I'm not cleaning it up."

Emma shakes Dean's hand off of her own and glances back at him. "I'm twelve; I can do this myself."

Dean takes a few steps back and holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, Miss Do-It-Yourself. Be my guest."

Emma rolls her eyes and taps the egg against the bowl a few times until a small fissure emerges; she presses her thumb against it and the egg goes spilling into the bowl. She grins at him triumphantly.

"Not even the tiniest bit of shell," she says proudly, tossing the cracked shell into the trashcan. Dean raises his eyebrows, then reaches forward and musses Emma's hair.

"Nice job, kiddo."

She shoos him away, banishing him to drop cupcake wrappers into each one of the spaces of their new cupcake tin.

"Still think we should've gotten chocolate," Dean grumbles.

"And you’re still wrong," Emma says, grabbing the box of fun-fetti cupcakes and gathering the rest of the ingredients.

Dean looks at her, standing on her tiptoes to reach the cabinet with the measuring cups, stubbornly ignoring the stool he dragged over next to her for this exact purpose.

Not that he blames her; he wouldn't have used it, either.

After a few minutes, Emma finds the measuring cups and starts doling out ingredients, tossing them into the mixing bowl with the egg. Once everything’s been added, Dean grabs the bowl and holds it firmly against his side, mixing its contents slowly, thoroughly, the way he remembers his mom doing it when she would bake cookies for him and Sammy. He closes his eyes.

Once the ingredients have been stirred into a thick batter, Dean holds the bowl out to Emma. “Test it out?”

Emma sticks a finger in the mix and licks it. She looks at it thoughtfully and is about to drag her finger through the mix again when Dean grabs her wrist.

“Hey! What’ve I told you? No double-dipping.”

Emma wrinkles her nose. “You’ve never told me that.”

“Well, I should’ve. Don’t double-dip.”

When all the batter is ready and dropped into the cupcake wrappers, Emma runs outside and plants herself in the middle of the backyard while Dean slides their cupcakes into the oven. Once he’s set the timer, he drops his oven mitts on the counter and follows his daughter’s path.

She’s fiddling with something in the grass, and he sits down next to her. Before he can say anything, Emma forms her hands into a circle and places them on top of his head, almost as if she's measuring something.

"Uh, Emma?"

"Mhmm." She doesn't look up as she brings her hands back down, arranging the pile of sticks and flowers in her lap.

"What're you doing?"

Emma's tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth as she lifts something up and places it delicately on Dean's head.

"It's for you."

"I…" Dean brings his hand cautiously to the arrangement tangling in his hair. "What is it?"

"A crown," she says simply.

"A crown."

She nods. After a few more moments, she sets her own crown made of flowers onto her head. "We made them at school, during recess. You give them to...people you think are cool...or who’re your favorites."

Dean looks down at the grass and smiles before getting to his knees and giving her a tiny bow. "Why, thank you, my liege," he says. "I'm honored."

Emma smiles, and Dean can't help but smile back. He isn't used to seeing his own green eyes look this bright and happy all the time; he wants to take advantage of it. A faint buzzing starts going off—the timer for the oven—and Dean turns to his daughter.

"We better go make sure those cupcakes don't get burnt.”

 

* * *

 

"You sure we made enough?" Dean asks sarcastically, trying to balance three trays of cupcakes in his arms.

"Hopefully," Emma says, climbing out of the Impala and slinging her dance bag over her shoulder. Dean gapes at her, wondering how many cupcakes eleven- and twelve-year-old girls could eat.

The dance studio is buzzing with activity as several pairs of mothers and daughters crowd into the waiting room. Emma finds one of her friends and runs over to her, leaving Dean alone with his cupcakes.

"Emma get a little overenthusiastic with the cupcakes?" a woman with long, flowing brown hair asks him, grinning as she grabs a tray.

"Just a little," Dean answers. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"What'd, uh, what'd you make?"

"Brownies."

"I'm gonna need a nap after this, then. All this food."

The woman chuckles as she shows Dean over to the food table. "I'll need one after the recital's over. A nap and some wine.”

A little girl with flushed cheeks and half her hair up in a ponytail runs up to the woman and starts grabbing at her arm. “Mom, my hair!” she wails.

The woman looks apologetically at Dean, who gestures for her to help her daughter. She gives him a quick smile, then leads the little girl over to a chair and starts to fix up her hair, brushing it out with her fingers and pinning the whole thing up into a tight bun.

Dean busies himself by glancing around at all the other moms and daughters, and suddenly becomes aware of the fact that he’s the only male in the room, and the only parent not doting over his daughter. He bites back a cough as a woman nearby blasts her daughter with hairspray; another is fiddling with a bobby pin while clenching two more between her teeth. His eyes finally land on Emma, who is sitting off to the side, getting her ballet slippers out of her bag and preparing to put them on. He walks over to her and stands awkwardly, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“A, um, a lot of fuss about”--he waves a hand vaguely around his head--”the hair and stuff.”

Emma looks up at him and grins. “Yeah. It’s part of the package.”

“For classes, too? I thought it was just for the main thing.”

“The recital,” Emma corrects. “And sometimes during classes, too. Dancing’s easier without hair flying in your face all the time.”

“Ah.” Dean pauses, then continues, “Do you, uh, need any help with it?”

Emma smiles again. “Do you even know how to make a ponytail?”

“I’ll improvise.”

She looks at the elastic around her wrist for a second, then pulls it off and hands it to him. He stares down at it, a little surprised, but tries to hide it as he plays with the elastic between his fingers. Emma scoots around so that her back is to him.

Dean stares at Emma’s hair for a second, then down at the elastic before taking a quick breath, kneeling down, and making his first attempt. He casts a glance or two over at other mothers--it’s how he learns to brush out Emma’s hair with his fingers--and finally starts gathering Emma’s hair back and bringing it up closer to the top of her head. When he tries to grab the elastic, though, he almost lets her hair drop back down.

“Shit,” he breathes, and he can hear Emma stifle a snicker.

“It gets easier,” she says.

“I should hope so.” He pulls her hair up higher and holds it there, studying the way the moms wrap the elastic deftly around the ponytail. Finally, he twists the elastic a few times until it’s tight, then leans back and gets to his feet. He watches as Emma pats the top of her head and runs her hand along her hair and down the ponytail, observing his handiwork. There’s a bump or two, but nothing major, and Dean has actually managed to keep the ponytail centered in back of her head.

“Not bad.”

Dean smirks. “‘s it as good as all the other hair...things here?” He waves his hand around at Emma’s classmates, all of whom are sporting pristine ponytails, buns, and French braids (the braids give Dean a headache just looking at them).

Emma grins. “Better.”

Dean’s smirk turns into a genuine smile, and he reaches over and gives Emma a quick hug as she gets to her feet. “I’ll be a pro in no time,” he says.

"Okay, ladies," a slim brunette calls out, "we'll be showing your parents how much you’ve learned so far, and eating food—obviously—but first, picture time!" Dean recognizes her as Noelle, from her photo on the website.

"Tallest girls in back, shortest sitting down in front!" another one, Amy, calls, ushering the girls into something resembling order. Dean heads over to the other parents and watches as Emma, one of the tallest girls in the class, scoots to the back. She makes eye contact with him and gives him a small, quick smile; Dean smiles back. He suddenly feels woefully unprepared as every mom in the place pulls out a camera—Jesus, the one in front of him's even got a video camera—and starts snapping pictures. Dean shifts uncomfortably on his feet. He glances over at the video camera's viewfinder at the tinier versions of the girls and their teachers—

Which is when he notices the retinal flare from Noelle’s eyes. Noelle, who’s standing next to Emma.

Dean lunges forward and pounces on the shifter amidst wailing and shrieking from the mothers and daughters surrounding him. He ignores them and raises his fist to punch Noelle, who reaches out and grabs his wrist.

"Knew you looked familiar," she says, smirking up at him. Dean tries to force his fist down, but before he can, he feels strong hands wrap around his arms and drag him to his feet.

“Dean!” Dean glances up at his name and sees the woman who made brownies staring at him, her eyes wide. She takes a step toward him, but he starts shaking his head. She furrows her brows together, confused, but stops, and Dean turns his attention back to Noelle.

"Wish I could say the same about you." He struggles against the hold Amy now has on him as Noelle gets to her feet.

"Every shifter from Heaven to Hell knows about you, Dean Winchester," she says, walking forward and tracing her finger along Dean's jaw. Dean grits his teeth and tries to pull away. “Now, I heard that you’re the one hiding something we want.”

Dean glares at her. “You’ve got the wrong guy, sweetheart.”

“Oh, come on, Dean,” she says. “Did you really think you’d be able to protect an Amazon in Heaven? Really? You must be more delusional than we thought. Stop wasting our time, Winchester.” She rears back and punches Dean hard across the face. He can hear the moms and little girls gasp and let out little shrieks as he tastes blood in the corner of his mouth.

He tries to shake away the sudden dizziness from the hit and makes brief eye contact with Emma, who's huddled in the corner with the rest of her class, her eyes wide and terrified. He notices that she’s still wearing the necklace from Bobby, and he realizes with increasing panic that the charm must have finally run out.

Noelle raises her eyebrows. "Oh, _there_ you are, princess." She backpedals and grabs Emma roughly by the arm, forcing her forward. Emma cries out and pulls against her, but the shifter's grip is too tight.

“Emma!” a few of the other girls squeal, reaching out too late toward where their classmate used to be.

Noelle tightens her grip on Emma’s arm and glares at the girls. “Stay put,” she spits.

Dean can hear someone whispering behind him, calling whatever authorities Heaven has, telling them that Dean’s been hiding a fugitive from Purgatory. Everything’s coming crashing down too hard and too fast.

Dean struggles harder against Amy. "Don't you fucking touch her," he says in a low voice. He wills his fingers to stretch far enough for him to grab the small silver knife he's got tucked in his pocket.

"I'll do whatever I want with her, _Dean_ ," she sneers. “I don’t think you understand the price that’s on her head.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut as he feels the knife's handle brush against his fingers. He can't look at Emma right now; he needs to focus. He digs down and makes it look like a reenergized struggle, and that's what does it. His fingers wrap around the knife and he pulls it out of his pocket, slashing at Amy’s arm. She shrieks and lets him go, her skin smoking; he whips around and jams the blade into her heart.

Dean turns back around and his eyes widen when he sees that Noelle's got her arm wrapped around Emma's neck now.

"Dad…" Emma’s eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and it hits Dean harder than another punch to the face, what she just called him.

"Dad…" the shifter mimics in a whiny voice.

"Let her go," Dean says, brandishing the knife.

"Or what?"

Dean stares at her, then jerks his thumb back toward her dead cohort. "Or that."

Noelle rolls her eyes. "Please. You're not doing anything to me as long as I've got your little darling here." She tightens her arm around Emma's neck, and Emma looks pleadingly at Dean.

"Stay with me, Emma," he says, trying to stop his voice from cracking. "You're fine, you're gonna be fine."

Noelle breaks into another wide smile and opens her mouth to speak, but instead of words, a pained yell comes out as Emma's elbow collides hard with her stomach. She lets go of Emma, who runs toward Dean. Before she can get there, though, Noelle's hand closes around her wrist and starts to pull her back.

"Dad!" Emma cries out, panicked.

Dean rushes forward and slices Noelle along her forearm. She hisses with pain and Dean takes advantage of her disorientation to tackle her and in a matter of seconds, he's stabbed the knife into her heart, as well.

The dance teacher goes limp on the floor, and Dean drops the knife, breathing hard. Emma stares at him for a few seconds before rushing into his arms. She buries her face in his shirt and he plants kiss after kiss on top of her head, rubbing her back and stroking his fingers through his hair.

"It's okay, Emma," he whispers, "it's okay, they can't hurt you. They’re not taking you anywhere." He closes his eyes and hugs his daughter tighter as he feels her shoulders start to shake, her tears beginning to dampen his shirt. "I love you," he says into her hair. "You're safe, you're okay, it’s okay.”

When Dean looks up again, he sees the crowd of stunned mothers and girls staring at them. The only noise in the room is Emma’s muffled sobs, and even those are quieting down, leaving an awkward, tense silence. Dean slowly gets to his feet--mothers clutch their daughters and pull them away as he does so--and takes Emma by the hand.

“Y-you killed Miss Noelle and Miss Amy,” one girl stammers, tears already streaking down her cheeks.

Dean bites his lip and closes his eyes. “They were monsters,” he finally says. “I did you a favor.” He starts to lead Emma out into the hallway, but is stopped almost immediately by a man and a woman in fancy suits.

“Mr. Winchester,” the man says as the woman scribbles down notes. “We were called in for a violent disturbance of your doing.” He glances over Dean’s shoulder to the scene in the other room, then nods. “I’m guessing we’ve got the right place.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but the woman holds up a hand. “Let’s take this somewhere a bit more private.” She latches on to Dean’s arm, snaps her fingers, and all four of them are suddenly back in Dean’s living room.

“No one else needs to see this,” she says.

“Those were shifters,” Dean says sharply, releasing Emma’s hand so she can run to the couch. “They were going to kill my daughter. I had to protect her.”

“We understand that, Mr. Winchester,” the man says. “We appreciate you protecting our other Heavenly residents. But the problem is, your daughter isn’t one of our residents, is she?”

Before Dean can answer, the woman takes over. “We already know she isn’t, Mr. Winchester, so please spare us the lie.” Dean’s eyes widen as he watches her making her way toward Emma. “Don’t you touch her!” he yelps. “She’s staying with me.”

The woman gives him a condescending chuckle. “Mr. Winchester, you know as well as I do that’s just not an option. It’ll be best for everyone if you just let us take the girl into custody and let Purgatory deal with her.”

Dean tries to move, but he’s rooted to the spot. His mind races as he watches the woman gently pull Emma to her feet, write down notes on her stupid fucking clipboard, the man looks at him--

“No!” Dean yells, making all three of them turn to look at him.

“No...what?” the woman asks.

“This isn’t happening. I won’t let it. You’ll have to send me down to Purgatory with her.”

The woman laughs again. “That’s already part of the plan, Mr. Winchester. The penalty for shielding a fugitive, as I’m sure you know, is--”

“Actually…”

Dean turns quickly and stares at the man, who’s got one finger up in protest.

“Oliver,” the woman says warningly.

Oliver shakes his head. “There’s one exception, in paragraph two, subsection B, of the Purgatory Clause. ‘These rules apply to any situation with the exception of one in which a Heavenly resident is deemed willing and able by a member of the Heavenly Bureau of Investigation to take all responsibility and--in the case of youths--care for said Fugitive...’”

Oliver’s still talking, but Dean zones out, his gaze flickering back and forth between Oliver and Emma. The asterisk he had been reading the night Emma had her nightmare bursts into his mind, and he tries to keep his breathing under control the way Sammy taught him. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

It’s then that Dean realizes that Oliver is looking at him. “I’d say you can be considered willing and able, right, Mr. Winchester?” he asks with a small smile.

Dean snaps out of it and flashes Emma a wide smile. “Abso-fucking-lutely,” he says, kneeling down and letting Emma run into his arms. He scoops her up and holds her close, pressing a long kiss to the top of her head as he feels her arms wrapped tightly around him. He doesn’t know where the woman went, but Dean doesn’t see her anymore. He looks at Oliver and is about to apologize for the swear when the man waves it away.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and Oliver smiles again.

“Congratulations, Dean Winchester.”

 

* * *

 

Dean is still hugging Emma when there’s a loud thud from outside in the yard. Emma startles in his arms and looks up at him.

“What was that?” she asks softly.

“Nothing,” he says, stroking her hair a little more. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” He leads her to the couch and has her sit down, then turns on the TV. “I’ll go look; you watch...whatever this is, okay?”

Emma looks nervous, but she eventually nods and shifts her attention to the TV, squeezing Dean’s hand a little before he starts toward the door. He grabs the fireplace poker and carries it like a baseball bat. He grips the doorknob and slowly pulls it open, craning his neck to see outside before leaving himself fully exposed. His posture changes completely, though, when he sees where the noise came from.

“Sammy!” The fireplace poker clatters to the ground as Dean runs toward his little brother, who’s just getting unsteadily to his feet, still a bit shocked and trying to get used to his surroundings. The tackle-hug from Dean nearly causes Sam to fall over again, but he rights himself quickly when he realizes who’s welcoming him.

“It get too boring down there without me?” Dean asks, grinning.

Sam smiles and shakes his head. “If it’ll make you feel better, yeah.” He gives Dean another hug. “God, I missed you, Dean.”

“Missed you, too, Sammy.” Dean sighs contentedly, then pauses. “What got ya?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I really don’t want to fu-- _dging_ talk about it.” He snaps his mouth shut and stares at Dean, wide-eyed. “Dude, what the h-- _eck_ \--”

“I’ll show you how to get rid of it,” Dean says with a laugh. “But hey--”

“Uh, Dean.” It’s then that Dean notices Sam is looking over his shoulder, and he turns around to see Emma standing timidly in the doorway. She looks down right when Sam’s eyes meet hers, and Dean takes a step to the side so that Sam can’t walk toward her just yet.

“Sam…”

“What is _she_ doing here?”

Dean swallows hard, then looks at his brother pleadingly. “Sam, you’ve gotta trust me here. She’s good now. She escaped from Purgatory, and ran into me, and--”

“She escaped? How?”

Dean smirks. “She’s a Winchester, that’s how.” Sam looks at him skeptically, and Dean continues. “Seriously. She’s not gonna kill me, and she’s not gonna kill you. She’s just a regular little girl now, Sam, and Heaven just gave me full custody.”

Sam’s jaw drops. “You’re kidding me.”

Dean shakes his head. “Legit, happened two minutes ago, dude. I have a lot to fill you in on. But please, until I can, just give her the benefit of the doubt, okay? Please.”

Sam looks at his brother for a few seconds, then back at Emma, who’s still got her eyes trained on the porch. “Okay,” he finally says. “But you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Dean. Seriously, so much.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, yeah. But there’s something else we need to do first.” He turns around and gestures for Emma to join them. “Emma, this is your Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam, your niece, Emma.”

Sam’s cheeks go pink, and he smiles at Emma and gives her a wave. “Hey, Emma.”

Emma gives him a small smile in return. “Hi.”

“Good start, guys, good start.” Sam rolls his eyes at Dean’s awkward praise, and Dean smirks. “Em, we were wondering,” Dean continues, flashing Sam a small smile as he wraps his arm around Emma’s slim shoulders and pulls her close, “if you’d like to go meet our mom. Your gramma.”

Emma’s eyes widen. “Really?”

Dean nods. “‘Course. I want to see her, too.”

“You haven’t seen her yet?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. “Was waiting for you. Now c’mon, let’s go see Mom,” he says, clapping Sam on the back. “Bitch.”

Sam grins. “Jerk.”

Dean grins back, then snaps his fingers, and the three of them are gone.

 

 


End file.
